


You Get Me

by kosmicklance



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, klance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 06:09:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10679307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kosmicklance/pseuds/kosmicklance
Summary: Hi! I'm new to ao3, so go easy on me if I'm a little bad at this. Basically my idea for this fic was to take three great au's and mash them together. So for this story you're gonna get the best of the college au, the music au, and the beach au.Song for this chapter is Into the Black by Chromactics.Thanks for reading!





	You Get Me

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I'm new to ao3, so go easy on me if I'm a little bad at this. Basically my idea for this fic was to take three great au's and mash them together. So for this story you're gonna get the best of the college au, the music au, and the beach au. 
> 
> Song for this chapter is Into the Black by Chromactics.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

“Hey, Lance. This is your dad. I was thinking that after class you and I could g-”

I sigh as I click delete, and then I select the next unheard voicemail. Neither of my parents can fathom that I can't take calls in class even though I've explained it to them countless times. So, every day during my lunch break, I skip or delete my dad’s voicemails and listen to my mama’s. 

“Hey baby, this is the lady that birthed you. I just wanted to remind you we're having movie night this Saturday, so don't forget to pack your favorite-,” Muffled screaming in the background takes up the line for a moment, “No Carly, you can’t give Rosy a Mohawk. Dogs need their fur, sweetheart. Carly, no! You’re going to be the death of me! Lance, I'll have to call you back. I love you.”

The line clicks, and I bite back a grin as I delete the message. Poor Mama, never a dull moment when you're a mother of four. She says she only has to raise three kids now since I'm not able to hang around much anymore, but her constant calling and fretting over me says otherwise. Too bad it's only Tuesday. Three whole days until I get to reunite with my family. What a bummer.

I'm momentarily startled by a sharp noise, and then I realize it's just the buzzer for my order going off. I carry it over excitedly to the counter. Food always cheers me up, and this food is no exception. 

As I approach the counter, I take note that the cashier is kinda cute and is also not the regular employee. Nyma, the one that's normally in here, has rejected me more than a couple of times, so I tend to avoid her. Luckily for me, the new girl holds my meal like a gift, and we exchange buzzer for cheese fries in gift-giving fashion. 

“Thanks, babe.” I say and lean against the smooth counter, “I haven't seen you in here before, which is a shame. Beautiful girls are my second favorite thing this restaurant has to offer. My first favorite is the cheese fries, but you might just give them a run for their money.”

Newbie giggles, “So you must be Lance?”

My face drops and I cross my arms. “Yeah. How'd you know?”

She puts the buzzer in a rack with a dozen more. “Nyma mentioned you. Said you are cheesier than the fries.” 

I can't stop myself from pouting. “Did she now? Well, you can tell her Lance says she always skimps on the cheese anyways, so that's not a difficult task to manage.”

Snatching up my food, I stomp angrily away, tuning out the newbie’s laughter as I go. Oh well, there's other girls to flirt with in this world, and guys too. Newbie doesn't know what she's missing.

I drown my rejection in my food. The goopy, gooey cheese and crispy fries don't last very long because I shovel them into my mouth two at a time. Every day, I order the same exact thing, and it never ceases to satisfy me; the day cheese fries fail to uplift me is the day the world ends. 

Now that I've finished eating, I really don't have much to do, and, unfortunately, Tuesdays and Thursdays are the only days my break between classes doesn't align with one of my friend’s gaps. Their absence shouldn't bother me. I could storm one of these tables and hypnotize every single person into forgetting their best friend’s name, like a modern day snake charmer. After all, I'm fantastically social--mama used to say I could make a rock buy me a friendship bracelet--but I already have a ton of friends. I don't really need anyone else in my life, right now. 

Besides, I do desperately need to study History. My grade is a solid 59, at the moment, and (as if living with my dad wasn't already hellish enough) I now get to deal with knowing he was a star in the Honors Program and I'm barely passing. Scratch that, I'm failing history, so that isn't even passing. 

Try harder, Lance, he tells me, Every success is the product of determination. Whatever. Sorry I'm not as perfect as you, Dad.

Grudgingly, I retrieve my textbook from my bookbag and turn to Chapter Eight. A picture of Washington or Jefferson or some other powdered wig dude dons the page, and the section title mentions the good ‘ole Declaration of Independence. The tiny font and subject matter makes me want to declare my brain independent from this torture. I wonder if dressing up like the the-British-are-here-muthafuckas dude and throwing my textbook into Escambia Bay would earn me any points. Nerds love reenactments, right? Ugh.

I'm still pondering this when that guy waltzes in from the back entrance. 

Every Tuesday this guy goes through the motions. He walks in, sits down, stares at the piano, mumbles, and scribbles in a notebook, and then he slinks out the building. It concerns me, to be frank.

I get where he's coming from, though. 

Our school has this hidden niche set aside in the Commons that houses the student center, a couple of restaurants, the Galley and a grand piano. We call it the Argo Market. Every day the same guys come in and shoot pool or play ping pong… and also manage to lose to Nelle from my 1101 class, without fail. She's a beast.

A mixture of students and faculty members can also always be found milling about, eating, arguing over the news, taking weird online surveys together, or having extensive conversations about whatever strikes their fancy; however, catching someone playing the piano is a much trickier business.

There is no cost to play the piano. If someone wants to perform all they have to do is simply slap dat ass down on the bench and then do their thang. Here’s the kicker: just because you can play doesn't mean you should. I cannot begin to describe the masses of people that strut in here, making these grand flourishes like some kind of aficionado, then attempt to “serenade” their audience, only to produce a clamor akin to a flock of geese trapped in a thunderstorm. Sometimes there are surprises, though.

Last year, this girl, Lottie, used to come in every day and play classical music. I was kind of in love with her, for a second, so I came up with a plan to talk to her. One day, after she finished playing the Moonlight Sonata or something of that nature, I casually slid onto the piano bench and said, “So can play Coldplay or the Star Wars theme? Don’t get me wrong; Bach is bae, but I’d like to hear you get creative on the keys. This is too easy for you. I can tell from the look on your face. Come on, challenge yourself.”

She should have decked me; I was expecting her to deck me. Lottie was far too kind, I’d come to learn though, and so instead she just laughed and agreed with me. I was shocked, but she confided in me she had dreams of becoming a movie score composer and Mozart just wasn’t getting her there. That’s how we began the NYUsic Drive. 

Basically, we put out a tip jar, and Lottie took song suggestions. Within two semesters, Lottie had crowds drawn to listen to her play in the Galley, her tip jar was overflowing, and she had an audition lined up with scouts for NYU. We never dated, but our friendship grew tight over that year, and I do miss hearing snippets from the Interstellar soundtrack or variations on pop songs echoing throughout the room. We still talk, of course, but it's not the same.

So, I have no doubt that I should leave the emo dude alone. I mean he just reeks of angst and bad manners, but something is stirring in my chest, something alive and fluttery and unwelcome, and I just know that if I don’t say something he’s never gonna touch that piano. Maybe it's a little self-righteous to believe I am the lynchpin in this guy’s musical journey, but I kinda was in Lottie’s case. Who’s to say I can’t help this guy too?

Here is how to make possibly the biggest mistake of your life:

•Step 1: Find a lonely emo kid.

•Step 2: Strut over to his table, pull up a chair and sit silently down.

•You are silent because the emo kid is actually really attractive up close. I mean we're talking stormy gray eyes, soft black hair, he's wearing a Bastille WWComs bomber jacket, his nails are painted black and are in some kinda leather biker gloves, and he's edgy but in a cool way, and… woah, stop Lance.

•Anyways! Step 3: Don't talk, just kinda laugh a little as he, at first, tries to ignore you and then finally results to glowering.

•You now have the upper hand.

•Step 4: When he says, “What the hell man?” Respond with a laugh.

•Do not reply.

•Step 5: When asks, “What's your problem?” tell him, “My problem is that you obviously want to play that piano, but you won't do anything but stare at it.”

•Step 6: Prepare yourself for some complete and utter shit to commence.

I'm a cocky asshole sometimes, okay? But I always mean well. This guy… he doesn't seem to get that.

The guy explodes out of his chair and slams it back to the table. I cringe a bit because now the whole room has their eyes on us. This dude doesn't care though. He swipes his backpack stomps over to the piano and plants his ass like the piano bench is a throne meant for his royal behind. 

He glares at me and says, “I can do more than play piano, too, asshole.” Then he pulls a tablet from his bag and a portable speaker, and plugs the two together and presses a button. He gives me one last shadowy look. “Also, I sing.”

It feels like the entire room is holding their breath with me, and all I can do is set myself up for disappointment. See, I've heard some decent singers from that piano, but my dad owns a recording studio that actual celebrities record at. No one has survived my expectations yet.

But then this guy starts to play.

At first, it's just the stuff from his tablet--a puttering noise I can tell he did it himself--but not because it’s bad. I have a trained ear, and I've been able to work soundboards since I was ten years old. I'm just used to professionally done music. This sound is thrilling though; it's raw.

Then a bass line cuts in and the crowd that's gathered murmurs excitedly, looking at each other and nodding. My eyes are on his profile, though. He's put on a good show, being confident and whatnot, but I can see his hands shake. He inhales and exhales slowly, and then he begins to sing and play.

“I watch the moon hang in the sky.”

I recognize the song: The River by Chromatics. He has done it justice. It sounds the same but somehow even more space-y. And God his voice. It's dreamy but alert with like the absolute lightest touch of a rasp. I can feel goosebumps crawl along my skin as he sings.

The music behind him is excellent too. He's taken artistic liberties (aside from the piano which remains the same) and used different sounds and placed them in slightly unusual places, but it's practically divine. By the time he reaches the breakdown of the song, the audience is clapping along to the low thrum of the bass. I, however, am motionless, attempting to analyze every single sound he and his tablet make.

The fact I am deconstructing this cover makes me want to slap myself. Knowing when and where every minute variation occurs between this dude’s version and Chromatics original is like a slap in the face of the identity I've been building over the past few years. I am not my dad's worker bee, who serves only to heighten other people's music. 

I'm boiling in my own anger, so much so that I nearly forget to prepare myself for when he can't hit the high notes of the last verse. But then… he hits them flawlessly.

Despite myself, my eyelids flutter shut; they're not able to stay open because of the sheer musical bliss that consumes me. The fact he can even hit those notes is astounding. I can hear that he has to try hard in his voice, but the effort makes the sound more soulful. His voice sounds better than the original when he lets it go higher, and damn, I feel high.

He sings the last note. “But I'm still here waiting for you.” And then it's just the music from the tablet.

The guy hops up, music still going and jumps on top of the piano bench. My mouth flies open; I was not expecting his bold move. The audience cheers. He claps his hands over head, and they clap with him until the music ends. He looks so comfortable with himself, like nothing he's doing is insane. When the music finally does halt, the crowd cheers for him like he has just gotten a golden buzzer on AGT. 

“Thank you, ladies, gents, and all the rest of y’all! I'm here all week.” Then he starts to put away his things.

Once the crowd realizes they aren't getting an encore they disperse. The dude slings his backpack over his shoulder, and despite how cool he gave that perfect performance, I catch that (again) his entire body is shaking. He walks away, practically skipping and giggling.

I just stand there like an idiot, smiling and wondering how the hell all that just went down when I realize something:

He's fucking leaving.

I snap out of my stupor and run out the glass doors. My eyes search the sidewalk crazily, looking for a black mullet and a weird red jacket. I am nearly too late finding the guy. He's hopping on a black Ducati motorcycle when I finally spot him.

“Hey!” I holler, nearly hitting an elderly woman, “Sorry, miss. HEY! MULLET! Wait up!”

He pauses from putting on his helmet and eyes me curiously as I sprint towards him, and when I get over to the guy, he's staring at me amusedly, helmet under his arm. “Something the matter, Lance?”

I halt gasping for breath, and stare at him, “H-how do you know my name?”

The guy shakes his head, shiny black hair going everywhere as he does. “Are you actually that self-centered? Damn.”

I’m surprised at the insult, even though I should have gathered he's an abrasive person by now. He goes to put on his helmet but I stop him. “Forget that. What's your name, and why the fuck have you not done that,” I gesture back at the galley, “Before now? You rocked the house, man.”

“One, you self-absorbed prick, my name is Keith, Keith Kogane, and you should know that by now. Two, I haven't performed before because I'm shy.”

“Bullshit!” I exclaim, pointing at him, “You looked like some kind of rock-god at the end there, pal. The people back there would have bought an album from you in a heartbeat.”

“Lance, just because I looked comfortable back there doesn't mean I felt comfortable at all.” I cross my arms. He's right; he was shaking the whole time. His body was practically vibrating. “Anyways, I suppose I should thank you for getting me to play, yeah? So thanks for your help, but next time, try not to be so smug about it.”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever.” I grumble. “Bye, Keith.”

He laughs a little to himself and I turn to go back to the galley. Behind me the engine revs. Don't do it, I think to myself, Don't you dare look back. But I don't listen to anybody except my mama, and the anybody's include myself. So I attempt to glance back at Keith casually, but he's slipping his helmet on his head and catches my eyes. Smirking, he pushes his helmet the rest of the way on, and then he waves as he takes off.

I want to be mad, or embarrassed, or anything other than what I'm thinking, but I can't help it. I need Keith Kogane to sing again, but backed up by professional equipment and his very own lyrics next time.

I can't believe I'm saying this, but… I have got to call my dad.


End file.
